Death In The Graveyard

Once upon a Sunday morning,
In a mistry drizzle, the rain was pouring,
And the sun not soaring.
As I journeyed down by a stream,
It felt as though I were in a dream.
And many hours I did wander,
Until I saw a road up yonder.
And on that road trees did not grow,
But an eerie wind did somberly blow.
Slowly I started down that path,
Battered and torn by the cold wind's wrath.
In the distance I heard hallowed laughter,
But I heard only the wind shortly after.
As the day grew late, I came up on a gate,
Slowly it creaked open, very near broken.
I took a look around; there lied a potter's ground.
I dared not enter, but quickly to stray,
Then I saw a man, old and gray,
Haggard and weary with a pale skin tone,
His arms wrapped around a small head stone.
Quietly and sadly he began to moan.
I said unto him "Friend, chap, why do you cry,
Hath someone so dear to thee die?"
He said to me in a voice so feeble,
"No, it is I that soon will die,
For Death come a calling, here he will find me falling,
And this is my grave, which I have paved."
Then like a bog,
There came such a fog.
My heart suddenly jolted,
The old man revolted.
Out of a black light,
I saw such a sight.
Death had appeared,
And began to sneer.
Death's somber skin tone,
Chilled me to the bone.
In spite of his fright,
The old man took flight.
With all dismay, he did not get away,
Death drew his life,
Like fire from a candle light.
A pale expression glued to his face,
I ran quickly and made haste.
Then there came laughter, I ran only faster,
I dared not look back, for fear I did not lack.
Nor did I speak that next morning,
For Death came as a warning.
That of any day, when the sky turns gray,
And of any hour of any place,
I may see Death's cold face.